I heard the tall grass
whispering,
gossiping,
spreading rumors of
spring,
even tho the ground is
hard with winter.
With ice underfoot
and my breath in the air,
Spring seems an unlikely
fable,
but I do so want to
believe.
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The Leaf is a Metaphor
The glorious bronze Sycamore leaf departed from her home in the trees in mid-November She was not the first leaf to leave* so to speak and s...
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The creek was dark beneath the canopy of trees save for one shaft of sun that lit the stream there like gold I could see on...
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